Trouble
by GentleReader
Summary: A series of drabbles illuminating Peter & Gwen's relationship. 2012 Movie-verse. Rated T for later chapters.
1. The Siren's Song

**Author's Note: **This is my first foray into the Spider-Man fandom...in fact, into any comic fandom. I saw the movie (multiple times) and fell in love with Andrew Garfield's deliciously awkward and angsty portrayal of the webslinger. Add Emma Stone's Gwen into the equation, and you've got the most compelling couple I've seen onscreen in a long time.

This story, such as it is, will feature a bit of everything: some character introspection, some missing scenes, and eventually something of a continuation of the film. Some fluff, a little action, a touch of backstory...hope you enjoy my little cocktail of Spideyness. :) Reviews are especially valuable since this is my first shot.

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**Trouble**

**Chapter One:**

**The Siren's Song**

"Oooh…I'm in big trouble," Gwen Stacy whispered as she watched Peter Parker plunge into apparent oblivion over the balcony railing.

She stood still in the hallway, listening to the wail of the sirens…the rhythmic howl that drew him away from her, his face shuttered, his gaze targeting the sound. He hadn't even said goodbye.

Never mind that, only moments before, they had been locked together in a kiss that sent joyful sparks out to her very fingertips…a kiss she could still feel, tingling on her lips.

The siren's song—ha. She allowed herself a half-bitter chuckle. Was it wrong to feel a twinge of resentment at whatever idiot it was who had gotten jumped in a dark alley…or held up in a liquor store…or left his car with a careless valet?

"GWEN!" Her father's voice razored through her thoughts. Slowly she made her way down the hall, pushing open the door to the living room. He was pacing irritatedly over the plush cream carpeting, hands on hips, while her mother murmured words calculated to soothe and calm.

George Stacy had always been the epicenter of Gwen's life. When she was younger, she'd been impossibly, insufferably proud of him. There was not a case he couldn't solve, a criminal he couldn't catch. She had felt a kind of pity for the other kids she knew, whose parents were doctors or investment bankers or pilots—all very well in their way, of course, but nothing compared to the chiseled embodiment of truth and justice who sat at the head of the table every night, who listened to her prayers and tucked her into bed.

As she grew older, Gwen started to realize that her household god had some very human frailties. Once her passion for science took hold, the Captain's black-and-white worldview felt too simple. In science, there was always another theory, another possibility, waiting just around the corner; you didn't just "decide"—you hypothesized, you experimented, you studied results…and then you hypothesized again.

Nonetheless, her father's influence still loomed large, and his forceful personality cast a long shadow over her other relationships. He didn't need a gun or a badge to command a room; his mere presence was enough to compel a kind of tense focus from anyone in the vicinity. The boys she met at school, or the young bucks at Oscorp, were pale imitations, diluted forms of the species. Their narrow interests bored her; their smug assumptions annoyed her. Occasionally, she had brought one of them home, where their egos inevitably deflated like pricked balloons in the face of Captain Stacy's questioning. Really, it was more for comic relief than anything else—she and Howard made a game out of how long it took before they choked on their water or tripped over their own feet in their haste to get out the door.

Peter, of course, was different. There was something she had seen in him—something that reminded her of her dad—in the way he'd stuck up for Flash's lunch-table victim. A determination that justice would be served; a kind of grim assurance, beyond fear, even in the face of violence.

Peter, who wore his intelligence as carelessly as his old grey hoodie, whose grin made her stomach flip, whose brown eyes still held grief for his uncle, and another, darker pain she didn't recognize…Peter hadn't wilted. He had, in fact, given as good as he'd gotten, and she'd laughed outright to see her father, finally, meet with a worthy adversary. It was too bad, really—Peter had been right when he'd said that Spiderman and the Captain stood for the same things…only her father would never see it that way.

Maybe that was why, as he stood in the living room, arms crossed in the I'll-tell-you-how-things-are-gonna-be stance that was so familiar to her, that he looked a little less imposing, his voice less booming, the room larger around him.

Gwen lifted her chin, hesitant but not penitent, and prepared to cross swords.

"Where's your…friend?"

"He left."

George Stacy raised an eyebrow. "He couldn't use the front door?"

"He—was in a hurry. Homework—" She really shouldn't lie so easily, she thought, backtracking. "Stuff… He went out the back." That, at least, was true. Relatively speaking.

"So about this Mr. Know-It-All—"

"George!" her mother interjected warningly.

"Fine." Then, with exaggerated politeness, "About _Mr. Parker_—will we be having the pleasure of his company again?"

This was a loaded question, and Gwen knew it. "Oh, I don't know," she said, mock-airily. "You'll probably be seeing him around."

"Great." The Captain managed to cram a world of sarcasm into that one syllable.

Gwen turned to leave. "Was that all? I have a page full of calculus problems that won't solve themselves."

"Go." Her father waved one hand. "But Gwen? I'll be watching..."

"I'm sure you will be," she replied, walking out the door.

Later, her calculus book lay disregarded on her desk, while she stared out the window into the night sky...wondering...wishing...worrying.

Yep—she was definitely in trouble.


	2. Up in the Air

**Chapter Two:**

**Up in the Air**

Flying.

That's what it felt like—kissing her. The same swoop of his stomach, the tingle in his blood, the surge of adrenaline that made him feel like he could take on anyone or anything.

And the powerful consciousness that he was unique, was (as far as he knew) one-of-a-kind.

He used to be Peter Parker, orphan, loner, sometime geek, second (apparently) in the senior class. Not at the top of the high-school food chain, with Flash and his meatheads_ du jour_, but not at the bottom either. No one special. But now…he's Peter Parker, webslinger…Peter Parker, who zipped through the skyscraper canyons of New York City, on his way to foil yet another crime.

By the same token, out of all the guys that (no doubt) would've come running at the crook of her finger…it was he, Peter Parker, who had held Gwen Stacy in his arms tonight, had brushed her satin cheek and captured her strawberry lips.

The thought of it temporarily zapped his concentration. He fired a webline into the ether and narrowly missed flying straight through a mirrored window, into the 35th floor of the Chase Building. Quickly shooting again, he managed to catch a cell tower; as he did, the sirens below him increased in intensity. He tried to pull his focus back to the task ahead of him…but the memory was too tempting, and he traced over it again while keeping an eye out for sudden corners.

It hadn't begun well.

For starters, there was that conversation—confrontation, really—with Captain Stacy. "If you really like a girl, get in good with her dad," Uncle Ben had once told him. "It never hurts."

Strike One.

Out on the balcony, it just got worse. He made that crack about the Captain arresting him, and suddenly, she was just a breath away. If he leaned forward, even a little…but some idiotic notion about honesty and honor, making sure she knew who he _really_ was, stopped him.

But he couldn't find the words. It wasn't just that he'd never told anyone before—it was the range of her potential reactions. Would she find it revolting? Take her father's side in the vigilante/hero debate? Laugh at him? Or…maybe the worst…see him merely as a fascinating subject for scientific study?

Confusion tangled his tongue, and he alternately babbled and choked. "I've been bitten," he finally managed to blurt out. In his panic, he didn't even register her (retrospectively) heartstopping response: "So have I."

Strike Two.

She turned away in frustration, and he was _thisclose_ to whiffing it entirely. Then the web shot out almost of its own accord…his hands were on her hips…she was gasping in surprise, their lips came together and he was drinking in the taste and the softness of her and feeling like he was soaring over rooftops yet rooted rock-solid at the same time.

Everything fell away: worry and insecurity and the one-two sucker punch of guilt and pain he carried with him always. It was as close to happiness as he'd felt in a long time.

And then her mother called her, and the sirens started, and responsibility bore down on his shoulders once again. Back in the present, his exhilaration vanished as he contemplated the scene of chaos and carnage below him: people screaming and running, cars upturned, the raucous screech of metal being torn from metal. He fired a line toward one of the bridge towers and sailed down, just in time to catch a station wagon as it came hurtling over the railing.

In the split-second between tethering it to the railing, and catching the next flying vehicle, it hit him—

He'd never even said goodbye.

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Thanks for the reviews, follows, and favorites, guys...it means a lot. Hope I'm getting the characters right so far...would love to hear your thoughts.


	3. Fly By Night

**Author's Note: **As you no doubt will recognize, the first few lines of dialogue are from the film. I can't remember them verbatim, but hope I've captured the essence…

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**Chapter Three:**

**Fly By Night**

"Let's get outta here."

"What?"

"Let's get outta here…just for a minute-" he whispered, cupping her face in one hand.

"No—"

"Yes—"

"No!"

"Yesyesyes—"

"I can't—if my parents see me leaving…I'm dead."

He leaned back, a mischievous sparkle in his brown eyes. "Your parents aren't gonna see you leaving."

The penny finally dropped, and Gwen laughed. "You're crazy," she murmured, kissing him softly.

Which might have been a mistake. After all, she had just finished telling him that she wasn't sure she could do this—be with him—if it meant adding another person to her mental rosary. Having to _hope_ (rather than _know_) that her father would come home every night was enough…and the purple welts across Peter's chest only emphasized the menace he might face on a daily basis.

But she couldn't help herself. The one kiss became another…lengthened…deepened. She traced the hard muscle of his bicep and the line of his jaw, arching herself closer to him. A shiver ran through her as Peter's long fingers mapped the curve of her leg, right to the lace that edged her short cotton nightie.

She broke away, glancing down at his hand, dark against the thin white fabric. His eyes followed hers, roaming slowly back up her body, summoning a flush of heat as they went. Her heart was pounding full-tilt.

Maybe sneaking out wasn't such a bad idea. Swinging through the darkened streets might just be less dangerous than this fizzing proximity of skin to skin. Especially with her family clinking cocoa mugs down the hall.

"So—" she pointed with one thumb. "Out there, huh?"

Peter swallowed visibly and nodded. "Yeah—out there."

"OK, then. I'll just—" Gesturing at her clearly inadequate outfit, she stood up.

"Yep. And I'll get my suit." He sat upright, and she saw him wince.

"Wait...we've got to get you patched up first."

Minutes later, she was cutting an old grey t-shirt into strips, a tube of Neosporin and bottle of antiseptic spray beside her.

Peter's mocking grin returned. "My own Florence Nightingale," he sighed.

"Hey—don't patronize me, bugboy!" Setting the strips aside, she squirted the antiseptic spray over his wounds—perhaps more than was strictly necessary. "This might sting a little," she smirked.

"A little? Jeez—" he gasped. "Anyway, it was a compliment. She was a pioneer in her field!"

Gwen rolled her eyes, applied the Neosporin and began to wind one of the makeshift bandages around him. She had her doubts as to the effectiveness of this "treatment"—they should really go into the lab, make sure there wasn't any poison present—but it was the best she could do for the moment.

"At least I didn't compare you to the Gorgon," he remarked. The hawk-nosed ruler of the Student Health Center, the Gorgon's cotside manner was reminiscent of Nurse Ratched's.

Gwen snorted. "Don't do me any favors." She finished securing the last bandage. "You should be OK for awhile…I'm gonna put something warmer on."

"You felt pretty warm to me."

Blushing, she ducked into her walk-in closet and pulled on a t-shirt, sweater, and jeans. Her nightgown she stashed in a dark corner. She would have to wash that herself—her mother would, no doubt, have some very awkward questions about the bloodstains scattered over it like exploded roses. She slipped back into the room.

Peter stood there, fully dressed, eyes trained on the closet door.

Gwen looked behind her. "Ummm…what's so fascinating?"

"Nice closet."

"Thanks," she replied, puzzled. Then she caught the amusement in his eyes. "Wait—you can't see through walls, can you?'

"Wouldn't you like to know?" He easily dodged the tiny ruffled pillow she threw at him; she lunged, tripping on the remains of her scavenged t-shirt. He caught her against his chest and they stood there breathless for a second.

"You're full of crap," she smiled, as he bent down to kiss her. "Spiders can't see worth anything."

"Maybe…but that pink unicorn on your top shelf is missing one eye." He grinned and caught her upraised wrist, lacing his fingers through hers. "C'mon…let's go."

And they were off. At first, the swooping sensation made her disoriented…the buildings seemed to be flying _at them_, rather than the other way around. After a few minutes, though, her vertigo lessened; she raised her head from his shoulder and felt the wind rush across her cheeks. They were flying up…up…up…finally landing on a bare rooftop.

The cityscape took her breath away. Spread out below them, New York looked like a model of itself: the skyscrapers were fancy building blocks of brick and mirrored glass; the bridges, like Erector sets with their constant traffic of little toy cars; and Central Park was a great dark carpet of miniature trees.

If she looked up, she could actually see stars. Not many (you had to get well away from Gotham for that), but here and there an especially bright one twinkled through the darkness.

And the silence. Gwen had grown up in the city. She could sleep through honking and shouting and trains rushing by. (Only the sirens really kept her awake…for obvious reasons.) Most of the time, the cacophony blended into a kind of white noise. But up here…it was actually _quiet_. Even the white noise was hushed and blurred; it was one of the most peaceful places Gwen had ever been.

"So," she finally said. "This is what you do? When you're not battling giant reptiles, I mean."

Peter leaned on the ledge. "Sometimes…yeah."

"And in between trapping car thieves and muggers and drug dealers."

He shrugged this off with one hand.

Gwen shook her head. "I can't believe—"

"What?"

"I can't believe that you're out here, every night, doing all that…risking all that…while I'm safe in my cozy little bedroom."

He brushed a loose strand of hair back from her face, and ran his thumb along her cheekbone. "That's why I do it—so you can be safe."

Gwen put her hands on his chest and shook her head. "Peter—it's not—I don't want you to—"

"It's not _just_ for you," he interrupted. "It's you, and Aunt May—the people I care about most…" He trailed off, and she realized that his list was painfully, pitifully short. But then he went on, "And everyone else out there—they all have people _they_ care about. And if I can help them, can keep them safe too, then I have a…a responsibility to do that."

"You take too much on yourself. You're still just a teenager."

Peter clasped her cold hands in his, chafing them together. "No, Gwen. I'm not just a teenager. Whether I like it or not, I'm…I'm Spider-Man. I'm the only one that can do what I do. And so—I _have_ to do it."

Tears glazed her eyes. He was so stupidly noble…and so careless of his own safety…it made her demand, almost angrily, "But—WHY?"

Shoving his hands in his pockets, he hunched his shoulders and turned away. She just barely heard him. "Because once—I didn't. I could've helped, and I walked away. By the time I changed my mind—" his voice cracked—"it was too late."

She put her arms around him then, forcing him to accept the embrace he'd refused, the day after his uncle died. She held on, willing him to share his pain, until he clutched her to him and buried his face in her hair.

They stayed like that, locked together a thousand feet in the air, until he stopped shaking, until the tears dried and the warmth came back into his cold cheek.

Finally, he raised his head and looked down at her. "God—Gwen—you must think—I just—" He stumbled over the words…but everything he felt was in his eyes anyway.

She smiled shakily, putting one finger on his lips. "Shhh—I know. But just remember this—you're not alone, Peter Parker. Not anymore. Don't think I'm gonna let you have all the fun, either."

It wasn't until much later, when they landed back on her fire escape, that the dark side of the bargain she'd made with herself came back to her.

"You headed home now?"

"Yeah…probably."

Yeah. Probably. Maybe. Doubtfully. There was always another lowlife, another crime, another victim. Not to mention the Lizard, and some guy with a star on his wrist.

She kissed him, fiercely, trying to show him the promise, the possibility, of other nights they might have together. Trying to convince him not to take stupid risks, to keep himself alive for one more day.

"Be. Careful," she managed.

"I will," he breathed into her neck. Then, with an indeterminate growl in his throat, he kissed her once more and was gone.

She watched him slinging his way out of her sight, with one thought:

_Come back to me._

She didn't sleep at all that night.

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**In case you're curious, I only have one or two more chapters to "fill in," before I embark on the uncharted waters post-movie. Hope you're still enjoying the ride! **


	4. Atonement

**Chapter Four:**

**Atonement**

a·tone·ment [_uh_-**tohn**-m_uh_nt]

_**noun**_

**1. **satisfaction or reparation for a wrong or injury; amends.

New York never did anything by halves. Today, they buried their beloved police chief. The parade of mourners was impressive: the black-draped motorcade; the honor guard, mounted on horseback; the mayor, in a midnight Mercedes; not to mention scores of ordinary citizens on foot. But it wasn't, apparently, enough, and the sky added its own tears to the collective grief.

Peter clung to the slippery, steeply-pitched roof of the church. The rain drummed on the hood of his grey sweatshirt; he heard the Captain's voice in time with each drop.

_Leave Gwen out of it. Leave Gwen out of it. _

He peered over the edge. A sea of umbrellas flowed along the sidewalk below him. One of them suddenly tilted up to reveal the Captain's daughter, her pink cheeks and green eyes a splash of color in the sober landscape. Peter moved back a little, afraid that if her searching glance found him, he wouldn't be able to stay away.

Some part of him felt like he _shouldn't_ stay away. And not for purely selfish reasons (although being without her felt like having to learn to breathe again). No, even his inexperienced heart understood that the best thing for her, the most _healing_ thing, would be his arm around her, his hand holding hers, his presence by her side. To know she could lean on him, could fall apart and he would put her back together.

The rain came down a little harder, as though it had heard his rebellious thoughts. _Yourfaultyourfaultyourfault_, it said.

And that was really the problem. It wasn't just that a promise to a dying man was pretty well inviolable. Peter might've been able to argue himself out of it, on the grounds that it was in Gwen's best interests.

But the promise you make to a dying man, when it's _your_ fault he's dying? When it was _your_ selfish curiosity that led you to give an equation, hidden for thirteen years, to someone who'd worked his whole life toward that end? Someone who might be so desperate to heal himself that he'd use it, consequences be damned?

He might just as well have impaled Captain Stacy himself. (Oh, and the bullet that killed Uncle Ben? Yep, _that_ had his name on it too. "Not my policy"—well, he'd spend the rest of his life trying to make up for that smart remark.)

He watched Gwen look around once more, then collapse her umbrella and slide into the waiting town car. As it slipped into the long line of cemetery-bound vehicles, he had one horrible, heartstopping thought: _What if _she_ thinks I'm guilty, too?_

**-P-P-P-**

As it turned out…she did.

Oh, she didn't blame him for her father's death (at least, he didn't think so), but it was pretty clear that she blamed him for his absence, for the empty space next to her.

She showed up on his porch, once again in the rain (had it stopped raining since George Stacy died?), eyes raw, looking like a bruised angel. At first, he'd said almost nothing, afraid that if he opened his mouth, the pain of their suddenly shuttered future would explode in an incoherent howl.

She didn't make it easy on him, though. The catch in her voice, the tears that hung on her lashes, even the way the tip of her nose got red—it all hit him like a physical blow. At one point, he _had_ to reach out and touch her cheek, or else crumble into nothingness.

It didn't help. She was still there. The hurt glazed her eyes, but something else—something a little like hope—was dawning behind it. He couldn't let her do that, knowing what he knew, knowing what he'd _promised_. The words came roughly, torn from him: "I can't…I _can't_ see you anymore."

She understood, then, that it wasn't his choice. By the time she snapped open her umbrella and clattered down the steps, she had figured it out: "He made you promise, didn't he? He made you promise to stay away, so I'd be safe."

It should've made him feel better, that she knew. It should've made him feel better that his aunt still believed in him, still thought he was nothing but good.

It should've…but it didn't. He went quietly upstairs and puked his guts out in the hall bathroom.

**-P-P-P-**

He had cut ties with Gwen and had spent the last few days laying low. (Well, more accurately, he'd spent the last few days feeling like absolute, bona fide crap. He couldn't summon the energy to pick his underwear up off the floor, much less fight crime.)

And Connors was in jail. But that didn't mean it was finished, that everything was tied up in a neat bow and he could move on.

No—the equation that had caused so much havoc might still be out there. Was it saved in the OsCorp simulator, or the BioReactor unit? Had Connors discussed the formula—and what it could do—with anyone else? His father had left town—had ultimately _died_—rather than reveal it. Who else would want it, and why?

These questions finally roused him from his near-stupor. He searched the news, and kept his eyes open going to and from school, but there was no evidence of any mutant animal form at large in the city. Connors' lab had been shut down, and the Ganali device destroyed. Peter wondered what had happened to Freddy, whether someone had been called in to "take care" of him. (If so, he didn't envy whoever it was.)

Only one man could really answer his questions, of course. But meeting with Dr. Connors was not a possibility. Even if Peter could've come up with a reason for visiting that was legitimate in the eyes of the Justice Department, Connors was being kept under sedation and in isolation—no visitors allowed.

So he turned to his computer, searching through file after file of articles by and about Connors, looking for anyone linked to his projects. In one of them, he stumbled on a quote from OsCorp's Vice-President of Biomedical Research, Dr. Rajit Ratha: "The work that Dr. Connors is doing could have broad application across a range of conditions and diseases. It's tremendously exciting."

Something tripped in Peter's brain, and he clicked through to the OsCorp website's Employee Profiles section. There he was…the dark-haired man Peter had bumped into on his "intern" tour…who had dropped a folder with the øø symbol…and who had led Peter to the Biocable Development Unit.

Where was he now? Peter hadn't seen him quoted in any of the recent press coverage. He googled the man and found a short clipping from the Washington Bridge incident. Apparently, Dr. Ratha had been in one of the cars that the Lizard threw over the railing; he had sustained a head injury and was (at the time the article was written) in critical condition at NYU Medical Center.

That had been two weeks ago. By now, he could've been discharged…or died (Peter checked the online obituaries—nothing)…or could still be slurping up banana pudding at NYUMC. He needed to be able to trace this guy—to find out what he knew, and how he was connected, _if_ he was connected, to Connors' project.

Unfortunately, he had no access to OsCorp, and no idea where to look if he did. He knew someone who probably had both; almost as a reflex, he picked up his cell and dialed her number.

_Leave Gwen out of it._

It rang once before Peter pressed the "End Call" button. The wound of his promise opened afresh and he realized that he'd lost more, even, than he'd thought. Gwen wasn't just a teenage romance—she was the only person who could understand his drive to find the truth…the only person he didn't have to hide from or make excuses to…the only person who actually _knew_ who he was. He didn't know if he could do this without her.

Atonement really, really sucked.

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**A/N: **I'll be away from the computer for a bit and may not be able to post. I will, however, still be writing…so I hope you'll hang around!


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